


for want of flesh

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, mention of literal identity theft, nikola is a dancer bc yes the pun, no beta we die like men, non graphic character death, pretty short, short character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: A Nikola character study.
Kudos: 11





	for want of flesh

**Author's Note:**

> found this buried in my other projects, decided to post *GASP OF HORROR* unedited! hope you enjoy!  
> xxx

One does not need a brain to remember. Nikola had memories stretching back before most people realized they had forgotten, all the little events that had shaped her.

“Do not forget, Nikola,” Gregor Orsinov had said, working quickly to attach her arms. “You are plastic. Not a real person. But if you try hard enough, the others might not realize it.” With a snap, her limbs all came to life, jerking and pinwheeling before she brought them under control.

She watched her shiny white fingers flex and twist, reflecting the light. “Not a real person.” Nikola laughed, high and tinny. “But they don’t have to know that.” With a grin sharp enough to cut glass, she launched to her feet.

“Be careful,” he warned, watching her turn perfect cartwheels. “You are breakable.”

“Oh, yes,” she said from her headstand. “But that’s what makes it fun! The knowledge that at any moment, I might crack, it’s like playing Russian roulette!” Nikola smiled again and Orsinov looked, for the first time, slightly nervous.

_What had he created?_

~~~

She remembered the first time she heard music. Records had just been invented, capable of bringing the music to you. Nikola Orsinovd did not blend into the normal crowd. Not yet. Years after her creation from the remains of Joseph Grimaldi, she found her true calling.

_Danse Macabre_ by Camille Saint-Saens. She still remembered the brittle plastic record, thinking how similar it was to her own body as it began to play, echoing around the back room of the circus. A chaotic tune of death and destruction, chronicling the end of life for an unfortunate soul. As the violin rang out, Nikola felt her fingers twitch. Then her legs. Soon her whole body was spasming in time to the music. She stood, stretching from fingertips to toes, before launching into a ballet.

Leaping and spinning, her feet made no sound on the hard ground. Her body undulated with a fluidity that betrayed her plasticity. The mirrors on the walls flashed as she spun, reflecting somebody that was not her. Nikola froze, staring at the mirror. For a moment, for a glorious space in time, she had not been just Nikola, a stupid, useless mannequin.

For a moment, she had been a dancer, a person who was not made of plastic and fear and shreds of a man long dead.

She considered herself in the mirror, looking at her gangly limbs. _Could she be graceful?_

After a slight hesitation, she threw herself back into the dance, twirling and stepping her way into a new identity with a ferocity one would do well to avoid.

_I am not Grimaldi. I am not the Stranger. I am Nikola Orsinov, the Dancer._

~~~

She remembered when she realized she was not trapped in a body like the rest of humanity, not a slave to a flesh prison.

“Oh, dear Gregor!” she called, singsong as she stood in the center of the circus floor. Hay littered her feet, sawdust and sand gritting between her teeth.

“Nikola,” said an old man, hunched with the weight of a century of creating for their master, the Stranger, the not-Them. “Where-“ He scanned the room, dull eyes roving over empty seats and dimly lit corners.

“Over here,” she said cheerfully, “I’m right here, you _stupid old man_.” He winced at the sudden change in her voice.

His gaze caught on what he previously thought was a shadow. The darkness stepped forward, revealing a woman, commanding attention in the attire of a ringmaster.

“Nikola?” Gregor asked. “Is that you?” For the face he was looking at was not his creation. It had smooth features, carved in living flesh.

“Oh yes, I suppose it is.” She tapped a finger against her chin thoughtfully. “In a way.”

“What do you mean?” His voice, once authoritative and commanding, faded to a weak whimper.

“I suppose I am still Nikola, although _she_ is still in here somewhere.” She threw her hands up to the sky, spinning in circles. “I am Orsinov, but now I am Alina Kuzmich as well. This is her body, it would be quite _rude_ not to acknowledge her.”

Gregor’s legs felt like water, unsure of whether to praise the Stranger or flee. “How is this possible?”

“Simple.” She laughed. “I stole her, taking everything she was and making it me. Oh, it feels _wonderful_ to be human. Although,” Nikola- Alina? stood on her tiptoes, looking as if she was about to fly. “It does feel a bit limited.”

He agreed limply, backing towards the door.

“Oh, don’t bother running.” She turned and grinned at him.

It looked quite out of place on her new face, the sharp angles of her teeth contrasting with the human lines of her cheekbones.

“I wasn’t-“

“And don’t bother arguing. You know what I want.” Her voice was sugary sweet, poisoning the very air she breathed.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, trying to appear confident.

Nikola!Alina paced towards him, hands clasped in earnest in front of her body. “I want _you_ , dear Gregor.”

“Please-“ He begged. That face might not be Nikola, but those eyes, _her eyes_ , alive in their death, let him know exactly what was going to happen.

“Goodbye, Orsinov!” she said cheerfully. “You have been _very_ helpful, and you will not be wasted, I can guarantee you that!”

With a smile and a wink, Gregor Orsinov joined her collection. In her plastic hands, Nikola held the key to life- the remnants of the lives others had wasted.


End file.
